


Freud is Having a Field Day

by All_I_need



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 10th fandom anniversary, 5+1 Things, Don't copy to another site, John is slow on the uptake, Lack of Communication, M/M, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25189459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_I_need/pseuds/All_I_need
Summary: The first time it happens, it's an accident. It really is.or:Five times John Watson surprises himself by kissing Sherlock Holmes, and one time Sherlock surprises him.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 47
Kudos: 425





	Freud is Having a Field Day

**Author's Note:**

> Can you believe that these two idiots fell in love on our telly screens on the 25th of this month 10 years ago?  
> Of course you might argue that Holmes and Watson have always been in love. But Sherlock and John fell in love ten years ago and in my mind they always will be in that happy place.  
> I was a bit late to the party, coming in half a year before S3, but I fully intend to still be writing fanfic for these two in ten years' time. I hope you'll accompany me for some of it.
> 
> Happy 10th Anniversary to the BBC Sherlock fandom

**1.**

The first time it happens, it's an accident. It really is.

Six months after the rather dramatic end of John's marriage and his subsequent return to 221b Baker Street, he and Sherlock are sprawled on the sofa, feet on the coffee table, watching an episode of Forensic Files after a long day of doing nothing of consequence.

Apart from the occasional comment about the show, they don't talk much, leaving John at leisure to enjoy the quiet companionship they share. Returning to their old rhythm, the one they had before Sherlock had died and John had gotten married, has been an uphill struggle. But they are almost there now and sometimes an entire day passes where John completely fails to remember that it has ever been different.

The third consecutive episode of their show ends and John jawns, glancing at the clock. It's much later than he expected and he's got work the next day.

With a groan, he heaves himself up from the sofa and stretches. "Well, I'm off to bed now. I've got a full shift at the clinic tomorrow."

"When will you be back?" Sherlock asks, switching off the telly and standing as well.

John shrugs. "Probably around four? I'll text if something comes up."

Sherlock nods and they both turn towards the kitchen. John to go upstairs, Sherlock to (hopefully) go to bed as well. John can feel his best friend standing right behind him, brought close by John dawdling for reasons he can't quite explain even to himself.

They are level with the sitting room door now, where their paths separate for the night.

John turns to Sherlock. "Well, good night then," he says.

And then he leans forward and kisses him.

For a full three seconds, neither of them does anything. They just stand there, lips pressed together.

After those three seconds, John's brain manages to catch up with him and he draws back, a little unsteady all of a sudden with the surprise and the sudden onset of panic.

Sherlock stares at him, not moving a muscle except for that rapid blinking thing he does when he's processing new information.

John blinks back at him. "Uh... sorry, I didn't mean ..."

Sherlock abruptly stops blinking. "Of course not. Good night, John."

His voice is soft and he doesn't seem angry or in any hurry to escape as he brushes past John and continues on his way. It's almost as if he has already deleted John's lapse in judgement.

John supposes that is the best reaction he can hope for. Since it hasn't crossed his mind to kiss Sherlock until he did it just now, he never spent any time wondering about or hoping for any particular reaction.

It's probably best to forget this ever happened.

*****

**2.**

The second time it happens, neither of them could possibly have expected or prevented it.

After that accidental, unintentional kiss, things seemed a bit awkward for a while. It's not that Sherlock was avoiding him, not at all. He stayed in the room when John entered, he didn't make up obviously false excuses to disappear. But there seemed to be a bit of distance between them anyway. Nothing too noticeable. An extra inch between them on the sofa, Sherlock choosing the chair opposite from John rather than sitting kitty-corner as he normally would at restaurants.

And always, always, when he thought John wasn't looking, the wary glances. As if Sherlock expected John to just jump him in the sitting room. Since John doesn't plan on doing any such thing, he doesn't.

After a week or so, they return to normal. After two weeks, Sherlock steals half the food off of John's plate and grins at him and John is sure Sherlock has completely deleted it ever happened.

And now they're running from a Mr Fletcher, who for some reason doesn't seem too keen to be arrested and convicted of the murder of three people. It's not quite what anyone else would consider a good time - running through wet streets and dirty alleys, half pursued by and half pursuing a killer - but John and Sherlock are in their element, running side by side, covering for each other, peeking around corners and sprinting across crossroads.

There are loud, heavy steps pounding the pavement behind them and Sherlock pulls John into the darkness between two overflowing skips, using convenient pieces of cardboard as a shield from prying eyes.

They are pressed in close and tight, their quick breaths warming the small space, and they're both struggling to stay quiet when what they really want to do is to laugh with exhilaration.

"Quiet," Sherlock murmurs, his voice so low the individual letters are barely distinguishable in his deep baritone.

John has to lean in to hear him properly and now they're too close and there it is again.

That reckless, inexplicable urge to be closer, to press their mouths together and just fuse into one person.

It's like magnetism and John the iron that can't resist Sherlock's pull.

"Yes," he whispers back, turns his head a little and crushes their mouths together.

He doesn't mean to. He's almost certain he doesn't want to. Almost.

But he does it anyways and Sherlock gasps, a surprised puff of air, the noise stifled by John's mouth on his.

It's enough to break the spell and John jerks back, breathless. He's exhilarated and terrified in equal measure and unable to tell which of these is caused by kissing Sherlock and which by chasing and being chased by a murderer.

The footsteps have died away, down another side street.

"Sorry," John murmurs. "I'm sorry. I don't know what ..."

For a moment, he thinks Sherlock is about to lean in and kiss him back but Sherlock merely pushes aside the cardboard and steps out into the deserted alley.

"He's gone," Sherlock concludes, voice completely void of emotion. "But it's clear from the route he took where he's headed." He pulls out his phone and texts Lestrade the address. "Come on. Let's go find a Chinese. I could do with a Dim Sum."

He glances at John and there is something unsure in his gaze.

John clears his throat. "Yeah, sure. Food sounds good. Know any good places nearby?"

"Two," Sherlock says. "But only one has prawns with that sauce you like."

John smiles. "Let's go then."

*****

**3.**

It takes a little while longer for things to get back to normal, for Sherlock to stop looking at John like he's a ticking time bomb that came in with the morning mail.

They don't talk about it, of course, which is a relief because John has no idea what he could possibly say to explain himself. It seems to just overcome him when he least expects it, making his skin feel too tight for his body and his mouth yearn for another's. He would have called it arousal except he's familiar enough with that to know this is something different.

He never feels this way about anyone else, never even felt this way when he was still married and happy about it (a frightfully short overlap, in hindsight).

A month passes and they both relax incrementally, slowly finding back to their usual rhythm, until John can almost believe they are past his lapses in judgement, if it wasn't for the occasional wary look Sherlock still sends his way. If it wasn't for the extra half step Sherlock keeps between them sometimes, when he must think John is in more danger than usual of repeating his behaviour.

John hates it.

He wants to apologise, to promise it won't happen again, but he doesn't. He has got two very good reasons for that: Firstly, if Sherlock was to demand an explanation, he wouldn't have one. Secondly, he can't be sure it won't happen again.

He can feel it start, sometimes, like an itch under his skin, and he'll turn away a little abruptly and do something, anything, to regain control over himself. Usually, he ends up making tea and then holding on to his mug for dear life, putting it between Sherlock and himself like a shield. He's no longer sure who he is protecting.

As far as coping methods go, it's a good one - so long as they are in their flat.

They aren't at home now, though. They are in a club, dressed to have a good time and staking out a suspect in one of Sherlock's private cases. They haven't had one of those that demanded more than Sherlock's keen gaze in a while and John is grateful for it. He's certainly grateful the Yard isn't involved in this one because the idea of any of them seeing Sherlock dressed like this makes his hands clench into fists.

It's bad enough that he can barely tear his eyes away, he wouldn't want any of their sometimes-colleagues looking, too. If asked, he wouldn't be able to explain the difference.

There's a loud, heavy beat that perfectly matches the thrum of his heart, or perhaps it's the other way round, and the club is dark, strobe lights flickering at odd intervals. It makes it difficult to keep an eye on their target and they've crept closer and closer, pretending to be lost in a shouted conversation, dancing occasionally. John thinks he might have had an apoplexy had any of the Yarders seen Sherlock move like this.

He keeps these thoughts to himself, worried what they mean, if they mean anything at all, and most of all worried that Sherlock will read them right off his face and withdraw again.

"I think he's getting suspicious," Sherlock all but shouts in John's ear, leaning in close to be heard over the loud music.

John has to agree - their target has been looking at them every now and then with a frown.

"Distraction?" he asks, hoping Sherlock already has an idea.

He doesn't - not at first.

And then he looks at John and something incomprehensible passes across his expressive face.

"Just do it, John."

"Do what?" John asks, even though he can feel it building up, gaining ground with every passing moment.

"John," Sherlock says, impatient now, and resigned, like he's sacrificing something. "It's ok. Just do it."

It's the closest they have ever gotten to talking about it, John thinks vaguely, but it doesn't really matter because a moment later he's reaching out, grasping Sherlock's collar with one hand and the back of his head with the other and pulling him down.

Sherlock follows this time instead of standing there passively. When their lips meet, his mouth is already half open and _that_ , that is ... John blanks.

Large, warm hands land on his hips, pulling him closer. One moves to the small of his back, the tips of Sherlock's fingers sneaking just past the waistband of his jeans.

And _this_ is the tipping point where the odd sensation he's been trying to parse tips over into arousal and before John knows it, he's kissing Sherlock harder, trying to pull him closer and closer and closer, until the desperate beat of his own heart drowns out the music and Sherlock makes a small, soft sound of surprise, and John forgets where they are.

And then someone bumps into them and reality comes flooding back. John steps away and clears his throat. "Sorry about that."

Sherlock shakes his head. "I told you it was fine," he says, barely loud enough for John to hear over the music and the noise of all the other people around them. "It was certainly an effective distraction."

Too effective, it turns out. When they look around, their target has disappeared into the crowd.

*****

**4.**

They're not awkward about it this time. Perhaps that's because Sherlock said it was all right, or perhaps it's because they're both sick of it causing hiccups on their road to a normal life.

Either way, things stay the same. Sherlock no longer looks wary and there's no extra distance between them. John continues to make a lot of tea at the drop of a hat.

They order take-out and watch shitty telly and catch four killers and a gang of robbers, all in the space of three weeks. John sleeps like a log afterwards and then spends a solid two weeks catching up on all the lost time he should have put in at the clinic instead of solving crime.

Sarah understands but he still needs to put in the hours and this is the deal they have arrived at: John can run off for cases if he makes up for the lost time afterward. He sometimes thinks the fact that she took him on again at all is a miracle and at least they're long past the awkwardness of having once dated. It seems like a lifetime ago. And besides, she has a husband and a little daughter now.

By the time his schedule returns to normal, Sherlock has solved several minor cases for private clients, closed some cold cases for the Yard and is in the midst of day two of denying Mycroft's request of attending some sort of charity event.

"Only you would say no to attending a charity dinner but pay to put Willikins through his apprenticeship," John says, shaking his head with a smile.

"Mycroft doesn't want me to attend because it's for charity. If anything, that would be a reason for him to keep me away. The last time I went to one of these things, I exposed the entire thing as a money-laundering scheme of the Irish mafia."

This speech is punctuated by a particularly vicious stab of Sherlock's thumb to the screen of his phone, presumably to send an equally vicious text to his brother.

"That doesn't sound so bad to me," John notes, crossing his arms. "Stopped a lot of people from being fooled."

"The chairman of the charity was a high-ranking politician," Sherlock says absently but not without a small satisfied smirk. "Mycroft had a hellish time keeping it out of the papers."

Despite this, they do end up going to the event, of course. John spends half the evening fidgeting with his suit and tie. God, he hates these clothes. They make him think of his wedding. Next to him, Sherlock is in a tuxedo and looking like he was born into it.

He has turned on the charm for the night, and John watches with something akin to wonder how Sherlock smiles and chatters to some older woman who quite definitely has more money than sense. John's neighbour on his other side is a photographer who has been all over the place, including spending some time in Afghanistan and they spend a good chunk of time talking about Kandahar and the beauty of the nature there and how much prettier it would be if bits of it hadn't been blown up all the time. John strongly suspects that Mycroft had a hand in the seating arrangements. For once, he's grateful.

He stops being grateful after dinner, when there is more mingling and a man in an expensive suit engages Sherlock in conversation while undressing him with his eyes.

It's clear to John from the look on Sherlock's face that he isn't listening to a word the man is saying. All his attention is on someone across the room, though he manages to nod and smirk convincingly as the man prattles on.

"... we could get some fresh air out on the balcony," the young man says, everything about him suggesting that fresh air is not what he's after.

John has had enough. He disengages himself from a conversation he wasn't really paying attention to anyway with a short "excuse me" and steps forward, right into his customary place at Sherlock's side.

He pointedly ignores the other man, speaking only to Sherlock. "I'm going to that buffet over there. Do you want anything?"

He nods in the direction of the buffet, right where Sherlock's eyes have been resting on a member of the catering staff.

Sherlock absently shakes his head.

John smiles. "All right. Come find me when you're done here?"

Before he knows what he's doing, he stretches up and presses his lips to Sherlock's cheek.

He's sinking back onto his heels before his actions really catch up with him but any apology dies on his lips at the sight of Sherlock's startled fan. John can't help himself. He winks at the man, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to imply that yes, this one is his.

And then he turns and walks away.

It only takes Sherlock two minutes to join him at the table, by which time John has managed to talk himself into and out of a sudden onset of _'Ohmygod what have I done, we're surrounded by posh people'_.

"Thank you," Sherlock says simply.

John shrugs, not quite looking at him, and hands him a flute of champagne. "You looked like you needed rescuing."

Sherlock smiles, one of his rare, true smiles, drawing John's gaze after all. "That's what I have my gallant Captain with me for. Now, care to help me catch a notorious jewel thief?"

John grins back.

They abandon their half-empty champagne and are back in their element.

*****

They do catch the jewel thief, a member of the catering staff, and hand him over to the people Mycroft had waiting just outside.

"Want to go back in?" John asks, glancing towards the doors leading into the room.

Sherlock snorts. "And be accosted by boredom personified again? No thank you."

They grin at each other.

John clears his throat. "Sorry about earlier, by the way."

Sherlock blinks at him, clearly incomprehending, which is rare enough.

"Kissing you on the cheek," John elaborates. "Don't know where that came from. I didn't mean to do that."

"Didn't you?" Sherlock asks softly.

 _'No'_ John knows he should say. What he thinks instead is _'Didn't I?'_. Suddenly, he's not so sure.

They're interrupted by Anthea offering them a ride home. John accepts gratefully and soon they are ensconced in the back seat of one of Mycroft's limousines. Anthea sits in the passenger seat, tapping away on her phone. Her presence is a welcome buffer to John because he knows Sherlock will continue their conversation, will demand an answer, and John doesn't have one. All he knows is that somewhere his sister is laughing at him.

He glances at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye and hurriedly looks away again. Sherlock is staring out the window, watching the city pass by with a pensive expression on his face, and he looks like he should be on the front of a high-end magazine. The fact that he's sitting in the same car as John instead seems to be some sort of grand universal mistake.

Before John can get too lost in that thought, the car rolls to a stop outside their home. He mutters his thanks to Anthea and their nameless driver and follows Sherlock out. By the time he closes the car door, Sherlock has already disappeared into the house.

John follows at a more sedate pace, not at all keen on catching up with him. He still has no idea what to say. Luckily, he doesn't have to, because Sherlock is already shut up in his bedroom, no doubt taking off that beautiful tuxedo.

He probably shouldn't be thinking about that, so he starts making tea instead.

Here's a little secret: John isn't very good at making tea. It's reliably free of chemical additives that don't naturally belong in tea, but that's about all that can be said about it. Sherlock, on the other hand, makes tea as if he learned it in a tea ceremony somewhere in rural China in the 19th century. Except for the chemicals, of course, but he does make an effort not to put these in these days and even washes out the cups beforehand.

What this means is that John ends up with shitty tea and an even worse mood and has done so for weeks now, ever since this - whatever it is - started.

Maybe he should try to find a better coping mechanism.

Maybe he should try to figure out why he keeps kissing Sherlock.

He can't really claim not to be gay when it is so very clearly his doing and when the doing in question is kissing another man.

Unfortunately, John doesn't know anything more about it than the facts of what happened. Sherlock was there and he was there and he kissed him. Just like that. Several times, under various circumstances, mostly entirely unprovoked.

What Sherlock himself thinks about this is anyone's guess. John can't quite bring himself to ask.

Instead, he resolves to try harder not to do it again. It shouldn't be that difficult. He's gone for years and years without kissing Sherlock, after all.

*****

**5.**

Three weeks later, they are recreating a crime scene in their sitting room. It's not an activity John thinks many people engage in but it has become something of a comfort to him. As long as he and Sherlock can fake-murder each other on the sitting room carpet, everything is right with the world.

They've pushed all the furniture aside and dimmed the lights to make the scene feel at least a little bit like the dirty alley that is the crime scene. It's pissing down with rain outside, otherwise John is sure Sherlock would have dragged him out behind the house to do this there. In fact, he probably would have done despite the rain if John hadn't read his intention on his face and said, very firmly: "I'm not going out in the rain, Sherlock. I still haven't fully recovered from my last cold."

Which is true and managed to stop Sherlock in his tracks. So the sitting room carpet it is. Again.

They're fake-wrestling. It's not about the murder itself as much as it is about Sherlock's determination to find out just how exactly the victim got his bruises where he did.

"No, this isn't a natural position for anyone to put their hand," John says. He's playing the victim, of course, so Sherlock can "see" the crime scene from the killer's point of view, and providing a running commentary on what does and doesn't work.

"Well it can't have been from the bin, the angle is all wrong and the bruise suggests a hand rather than a blunt object."

"Maybe there was a second attacker?"

"You saw the alley. There was no space."

"Did they stand differently, then?"

They try a couple of different positions but nothing works.

John frowns and glances at the autopsy pictures. "This bruise looks like someone was grabbing his hip from behind. That doesn't make sense."

Sherlock tilts his head to see the picture from the same angle as John. "You're right. It doesn't ... unless ... maybe there _was_ a third person."

"But we just said there wasn't enough space for three people to fight."

"Not to fight," Sherlock murmurs, stepping up behind him and grasping John's hip. "The victim was shielding them."

His large, warm hand on John's hip makes it hard to focus on his voice, which rumbles on right beside John's left ear. "Look at the pictures. His back isn't bruised at all. It's all in the front. He was facing his attacker and he wouldn't let them get behind him because there was someone else there, someone he was protecting."

Sherlock's breath brushes against the shell of John's ear and John shivers. He can't help it and he knows Sherlock can feel it, the full-body shudder that runs through him.

"Yes," he manages to get out. "That makes sense."

Sherlock lets go of him and half circles him to resume the killer's position. "So that means his range of movement was limited. He couldn't have pulled back his arms for maximum force for fear of elbowing whoever was there with him. So the killer must have come up to him like this-"

In four quick moves, Sherlock has John flat on his back on the carpet and is hovering on his knees above him, pinning him by the shoulders. "There."

John, the wind knocked out of him, nods breathlessly. "Brilliant."

Sherlock beams at him. "Only because you noticed the angle of the bruise was wrong."

John grins back and shrugs. "Conductor of light, remember? But I think ... I think the victim would have continued to fight back. Like this."

And he hooks his own leg over Sherlock's and pulls it out from under him.

Sherlock loses his balance with a "hmph" and falls onto his forearms, trying to counterbalance.

And just like that, they're face-to-face.

"Really, John, was that absolutely nece-"

John grasps the back of Sherlock's head and pulls him down to kiss him.

 _'So much for resolving not to do this again'_ he thinks, even as he presses their mouths together, taking advantage of the fact that Sherlock's is still half-open, caught mid-word as he has been.

Sherlock makes a noise then, a soft sigh that is almost a moan, and for a moment his lips move against John's and the world tilts on its axis.

And then Sherlock pulls back, slowly, as if afraid John will drag him back down. He doesn't, letting his hand fall limply to the carpet.

When he speaks, Sherlock's voice is almost perfectly even. Almost. "You really need to stop doing this, John."

John stares up at him, made breathless by more than the kiss. "I know."

Sherlock nods and stands, holding out his hand to pull John to his feet. "Good night, John."

"Good night."

And just like that, John is left alone in the sitting room with a sinking feeling in his stomach. All this time, he didn't know why he was kissing Sherlock. Now he'll have to figure out how to stop it for good.

*****

**+1**

John's steps up the stairs are quick in a way Sherlock hasn't heard since before he faked his death. It puts him on his guard instantly.

He barely has time to mentally brace himself before John walks in, looking delighted. _Oh no._

Sherlock's gaze flicks over him, taking in everything in a glance. The splash of coffee on his shirt (distracted while pouring), the slightly smug smirk (only one cause, really) and all the other little tells that combine to one simple conclusion. He keeps his mouth shut and waits for John to speak.

"I've got a date."

Sherlock's stomach sinks. He knew it the moment he heard John come up the stairs but there's no pleasure in being right this time.

Five weeks have passed since John last kissed him. Clearly it won't happen again.

 _'I told him it shouldn't'_ he reminds himself. Still, he hasn't expected John to listen quite so thoroughly.

Five weeks - nineteen in total since it first happened - and Sherlock still hasn't found an explanation. He would have asked John but by the fourth time it was obvious that John didn't know why, either.

The first time it happened, Sherlock was too surprised to do anything. In hindsight, he's glad about it. What if he had done something, said something, before John had time to say _"Sorry, I didn't mean..."_?

Of course he didn't. Still doesn't, clearly.

But then it happened a second time, in a dark alley, and Sherlock still doesn't know why or how. All he knows is he was startled and then hopeful and then John pulled away and apologised again.

Perhaps he was just compensating for his lack of a wife. Perhaps he just wanted to kiss someone.

By the time they ended up in the club, Sherlock had managed to convince himself that this was all right, that he could be that occasional replacement if John needed it.

But then John kissed him on the cheek in a room full of people who weren't drunk and dancing and that doesn't fit. Sherlock can't get over it.

The fifth time and the three before are all easily explained away by lust, by instinct. But the fourth ... the fourth makes Sherlock doubt himself.

It's that doubt that led him to tell John it has to stop.

_'Stop, please stop, before I get used to this and you decide you've had enough.'_

But of course it was already too late.

And now here they are and John has a date. Female, of course, because John isn't gay.

Sherlock realises he still hasn't replied to this statement and rallies himself.

"Not another nurse, surely. Even you can't be that pedestrian, John."

John rolls his eyes at him. "No. She's an actuarian, if you must know. She's going over the clinic finances for Sarah, helping with the tax declarations and so on."

Sherlock frowns. Taxes are something that happens to other people. He pays his of course, or at least Mycroft does for him, but still, Sherlock is fairly sure taxes aren't due for at least another two months.

"Bit early, isn't it?"

"It's been more than nine months since my divorce, I think I'm good," John replies, clearly thinking in an entirely different direction.

Nine months ... how quickly time takes them away from one of the happiest days of Sherlock's life.

"Of course, John," he makes himself say, forcing the words out past the sudden lump in his throat as his chest constricts. "Have fun."

Suddenly, John looks awkward. "Yeah, well ... gotta try, don't I?"

He glances at Sherlock and there's something in his eyes, something Sherlock has seen there before - a confused sort of want that does terrible things to him.

But before he can do anything about it, John turns and retreats up the stairs to his room to get changed.

*****

It's gone 10pm when John returns from his date and Sherlock is camped out at his microscope, doing a superb job of pretending he hasn't been waiting for him to come home.

John walks in looking ... puzzled?

Sherlock frowns. This is not how John's dates usually go. It's either vague annoyance about whatever went wrong this time (usually related to Sherlock himself) or happy and confident, the next date already arranged.

This does not fall into either category. Sherlock makes himself ask. "How did it go?"

"You can't tell?"

"I can tell what you had to eat and that it can't have been a total disaster based on the lateness of the hour and your lack of cursing and stomping about," Sherlock says, shrugging. "But you don't seem pleased with how it went, either. There are too many variables."

John snorts. "Variables. Yeah. 'Course you'd take the scientific approach."

Sherlock says nothing, merely raises an eyebrow at him.

"It was fine," John says flatly. "She was lovely, the food was great, we found lots to talk about."

Ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach, Sherlock asks: "But?"

"But nothing," John tells him, dropping onto the sofa. "Absolutely nothing. I would have had an equally good time going to the Pub with Lestrade or Bill Murray."

"Or watching crap telly at home with me?" Sherlock suggests wrily.

John snorts. "That's in an entire league of its own." He hangs his head. "I just don't know what's wrong with me."

Sherlock doesn't know either, but he decides to hazard a suggestion anyway. "Perhaps you're simply not ready yet. The circumstances under which your last relationship ended were rather traumatising and-"

"-and I got over that months ago," John interrupts, jumping up from the sofa again so he can start pacing. "And it's not like I don't want to... you know. Lord knows I don't have this problem when-"

He breaks off and turns away. "Nevermind."

Sherlock wants to shake him by the shoulders and shout but he makes sure his voice is calm when he replies. "When what?"

John sighs and lets the silence stretch on between them.

Sherlock decides not to push him. There's no way of knowing what might happen next.

"When I kiss you," John finally says, softly. "I never have this problem when I kiss you."

"Well you made it quite clear you don't mean to."

The words slip out before Sherlock can help himself, tinged with bitterness and all the hurt he has been trying so hard to pretend he doesn't feel every time John says sorry.

John turns, mouth agape. "You said I needed to stop!"

"You didn't even _mean_ to start in the first place," Sherlock snaps back. "I'm not some ... some substitute you just get to have whenever the mood strikes you, John. If you truly are sorry, you need to stop doing it. And if you aren't sorry, stop saying so because the last thing I want to hear from you is that you're _sorry_ you kissed me!"

He realises with some surprise that he has gotten up at some point during his speech and is now standing in the door between kitchen and sitting room, body tense as he and John stare at each other.

John swallows. "You ... is that what you think this is? That I'm using you as a ... a substitute for my wife?"

"What else could it possibly be?" Sherlock demands, throwing his hands in the air.

John looks devastated. "Sherlock ... I'd never ... she means nothing to me anymore. Surely you must know that."

Sherlock didn't. How was he supposed to? John never talks to him about this. His anger fades in the face of this revelation and he falters, more confused now than he has ever been.

But John, brave, brilliant John, seems to finally get a clue.

"It's just you," he says softly. "All this time, Sherlock, it's been just you. And I didn't realise for so long but it seems obvious now. You said I had to stop and I've tried. It's the only reason I even said yes when Beatrice asked me out today."

Sherlock blinks. John wasn't the one asking? That's ...

Sometimes, when Sherlock makes a truly magnificent deduction, his mouth runs away with him and he starts talking before his conscious mind can catch up.

This time, his entire body takes over.

"Sherlock-" John starts and that's as far as he gets before Sherlock flies forward, grasping the lapels of his nicest shirt and crushing their mouths together.

One beat, two, and Sherlock becomes aware of what he's doing. There's no time to panic and so he tilts his head a little, sighing against John's lips.

John moans, grabs hold of his hips and starts kissing him back.

It's everything their previous kisses were and more, because this time they are both active participants, neither of them frozen in shock or surprise.

John's hands seem to burn right through the fabric of Sherlock's shirt and into his skin, he's so aware of his touch he can feel every little flex of John's fingers. For a moment, he imagines he can feel John's pulse there.

But then John's tongue swipes against his lips and Sherlock opens his mouth with a moan, his whole body pressing closer, seeking more of this, more of John.

He loosens his hold on John's lapels so he can cup the back of his head and press one hand to his back to haul him closer instead.

There's a moment where they wobble precariously and then John's grip on his hips tightens and he pushes Sherlock backward.

For a split second, all Sherlock feels is panic, but John is following him, gently steering him until Sherlock is pressed against the kitchen counter and oh, this is better, this is _brilliant_.

There is nowhere for his body to go now, held between the proverbial rock and a hard place, only the hard place are the planes of John's chest and his strong thighs and Sherlock is trapped between John's body and the kitchen counter, both equally unyielding.

He moans again, opens his mouth further, tries to lure John in.

_'Kiss me harder, deeper, give me more, make me forget where you end and I begin.'_

And John does, bless him, even though Sherlock isn't sure he said any of that out loud.

It doesn't matter, really, because John is snogging him in the kitchen and Sherlock wouldn't even notice if the entire room was on fire.

Finally, John pulls back, just far enough so they can look at each other as they try to catch their breath.

Sherlock swallows. "Don't you dare apologise for that."

John blinks, licks his lips. "Wasn't planning to." He breathes out a harsh breath. "How about you?"

"I started it this time," Sherlock reminds him.

He looks at John then, really looks at him. Takes in his too-quick breath, the flutter of his pulse in his throat, his dark, heavy-lidded eyes and kiss-bruised mouth. John's hands are still holding on to Sherlock's hips and he doesn't seem inclined to let go anytime soon.

Desire is written all over his face but there is something else there, too, something Sherlock knows is mirrored on his own: joy.

He smiles.

"I started it," he repeats. "And I intend to finish it."

And he bends down to kiss John again.

  
  


**END**


End file.
